


You Know My Name

by SherlockianDinosaur



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, If you want - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Memory Loss, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 14:11:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockianDinosaur/pseuds/SherlockianDinosaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beneath dark curling hair, the brilliant assassin has a scar that marks the day he lost his memories. Twinges of almost-memories drive him mad until he runs into a drunken doctor in downtown London.</p><p>A post-reichenbach that is sort of AU, originally co-written by Simply_Isn't_On as a role play last year but I cleaned it up a bit and found a good stopping point. Enjoy! :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Know My Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Simply_Isnt_On](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simply_Isnt_On/gifts).



The slender figure strode through the darkness, discarding bloody gloves. A smirk plagued his face at another job well done. After three months, he'd put down nine of M's most prominent threats. Perhaps soon the boss would reveal his identity, it was annoying enough not remembering his own past, having mystery on his present was wearing his nerves.

Passing St. Bart's, the man stopped, looking up to the rooftop in the brief near-memory. With a silent irritated snarl, he stepped into a pub across the street, deciding he’d earned a quick reward for the night’s work. One hand ruffled dark curls, tracing the thick scar beneath as he sat. Someone took a seat two down from him and he lifted his eyes to look.

From the first glance he was unable to shake off the twinge of recognition. Military man, obviously, though he wasn't keeping his health — likely due to traumatic experience, possibly related to the old injury he clearly had sustained in his left leg and probably was the reason for his discharge. There was little to suggest his occupation other than the distinct hint of ammonia in his boozed scent, which perhaps leaned towards a job in health. Shifting in his seat, the dark haired assassin turned his face from the soldier, fearing that with his profession, recognition could lead to arrest. He dug through his wallet and slid a fiver across the bar before tossing his drink back and standing to leave.

John was having a rough night. Or rather, he was making it a rough night. He'd had to see a patient in St. Bart's today that left him completely unwilling to go back to the surgery. Instead, he'd called in sick and wandered London on an all-day pub crawl. By now he was well and truly pissed, but he tipped well and, in recent months, had become a regular, so the bartender let him stay. The drink helped him to forget. Or at least that's what he told himself.

The corner of his eye caught unexpected and painfully familiar movement as the man beside him stood to go. He could have sworn he knew that motion. John squinted, trying to make out his face, but with low light and eyes that didn’t quite want to focus anymore the military man gave up, threw back his drink and stood. Or tried to. He'd miscalculated the action drastically and ended up tangling his legs and finally on the ground with his back against the bar.

The other man jumped back stumbling back a few steps himself as he did. The bizarre urge to help the the man to his feet pulsed through him and he leaned forward before shaking it off. It was too dangerous. Too stupid. Too peculiarly kind. His steel-blue eyes lingered a moment too long on the soldier's face and he feared that their eyes met. Immediately straightening up, the man pulled his collar up, determined to make his exit.

“Sher…” John slurred drunkenly, trying unsuccessfully to get to his feet. He'd recognize that collar flip anywhere. Never mind the niggling voice at the base of his skull that was busy telling him that Sherlock was dead, reminding him that he'd jumped. He quickly gave up. The room kept spinning. Settling back, he closed his eyes, waiting for whoever it was to stop banging a drum in his head.

The criminal stole a last glimpse at the fallen soldier and out he went into the London air. The looming possibility of discovering something,  _anything_ , from his darkened past was beginning to sound like maybe it was worth it. That in mind, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and tucked himself into the adjacent alley.

John tumbled free of the pub as the shadowed man finished his fourth cigarette, the ember stomped into the ground as he recognised the dragging limp. Another wave of deep recognition. He reached out from where he lay hidden, pulling the soldier into the alley and forcing his back against the brick wall.

The criminal towered over John’s small form, eyes bright and fierce and searching.

“Can I help you?” John slurred, foot edging in beside his attacker’s and shoulders rolling back in trained military self-defence. The other man pulled forward and slammed his shoulders again into the bricks. “I said, can I help you?”

The assassin let out a growl, roughly releasing his hold and taking a step back, hands grabbing at his hair, fingers brushing at his scar. He turned in a tight circle before wheeling back onto John, gripping the back of his head and pulling so the doctor’s face tipped up to his own. “Look at me!” he half yelled.

Before he knew it, he was on the ground. A hard blow to the stomach, a deft sweep of his foot and a hard hit between his shoulder blades coming in quick succession.

“What do you want?” John growled.

The criminal feared suddenly that he’d run into an enemy. That perhaps it was best he’d forgotten who this was. The fight was on.

The soldier’s d brute force and practised technique countered his drunkenness while the assassin’s speed and dexterous improvisation kept him in the game. Adrenaline seemed to have washed John’s disadvantage away however and soon he was straddling the criminal on the hard pavement, each with a hold on the other designed to inflict pain if need be.

John spoke first. “Who are you?”

“No one,” the other said, part of him relieved not to be recognised. He loosened his grip on the other man. “But I’m impressed, soldier.”

“Hold on, you’re from inside… Why’d you attack me?”

“Let’s not forget who threw the first punch,” the dark haired man countered, voice low. “Actually, you should forget it. I probably will.”

“Hold on…” Narrowing his eyes, John stepped off the man, staring for a long moment before extending a hand to help him up. "You remind me of someone I- well, a friend. He's gone now, of course."

There was a moment of hesitation before he finally accepted the hand offered. "Gone?"

John nodded at the man's question. "It's been a while, about four months."

Died in battle, the assassin figured immediately. It would make sense of the trauma and limp, which was quite clearly psychosomatic. "Iraq or Afghanistan?" The question came from him before he even knew he was asking.

John glanced up. "What?"

The criminal nearly rolled his eyes but attempted a feigned politeness instead. "It's difficult to determine where soldiers are stationed. Simply curious whether the two of you were in Iraq or Afghanistan."

John shook his head. "What was it this time? The way I held myself? Haircut?" As he talked, it became clearer that he was talking to himself. Finally, he shook himself and looked over at the man. "My friend wasn't with me, but Afghanistan. I was a doctor."

The taller man raised a brow but didn't comment, lazily explaining his deductions instead. "Certain habits habits are not broken by drink. Anyway, I've had enough experience in combat against soldiers to know how one will throw a punch." Stepping out onto the street, he surveyed it's emptiness, grateful that there were no witnesses to the incident that had admittedly gone a bit out of control.

John nodded, then blinked and went very pale. When the other man had stepped onto the street, he'd been in the light for an instant. But that had been enough. John shook himself, trying to work out how he hadn't seen it before, in the hair, the eyes, the jerky movements and upturned collar. And now the deductions. John shook his head again. "What did you say your name was?" he asked at last. He almost didn't, almost closed his mouth and walked away. But it was too similar. Too much, even while intoxicated.

"I didn't." He answered slowly, careful about giving his name to people outside his circle. Suddenly his own eyes widened. His hands came up at his realisation. "Brilliant... It's me, isn't it." He breathed, his mind reeling and the mere instants that stretched over the other's hesitation felt like minutes. He took hold of the doctor’s shoulders shoulders, this time without aggression and brought his face close to the soldier's. "Your friend, the one that died. He didn't, and it's me. Isn't it?"

John clenched his jaw. Swallowed. "He's dead," he answered at last. "I saw him die. I took his pulse." He pulled away. "Sorry to have bothered you," he said. Then he turned around and set off down the street, shoulders hunched forwards and hands in pockets. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that Sherlock Holmes was well and truly dead.

Watching the doctor march down the sidewalk, he questioned himself for only a moment. So many times had he had these bouts of familiarity, but it all seemed to contradict everything he'd been told. He hated doubt, loathed it. All this made more sense than what they’d been feeding him as truth for the past three months. Taking a few strides forward, he called after the man. "They told me Sebastian. But I don't remember."

John stopped and turned around. "They?" he called.

"My-" Struggling for the right title for a moment, he quickly continued. "Colleagues. Mostly just the boss. I guess we've known each other for a while, but that's still just what I've been told." He stared after the doctor, hoping for some response.

"The boss. Your boss, who told you your own name, because...?" John asked. He stepped closer, now thoroughly intrigued.

“I can't remember. Just three months ago I woke up and I didn't know anything. Apparently I'd been having amnesia for several days prior to that, but..." He trailed off with a dry laugh, as if he could mask his hatred towards the memory loss. “"He's been instructing me since I woke up and I didn't really have much choice but to take his word. If you knew him you'd understand."

John opened his mouth, then closed it again, frowning. Amnesia... "Describe him?"

Shaking his head again, he looked away. "Never seen him. Most people haven't." 

“I know him better than you think,” he muttered, piecing it together as best he could

The doctor’s face was beautifully expressive and the criminal read it with incredible ease. He hid his concern behind raised brows as he chanced his words. "You know my name."

John grimaced; he needed more proof, just one more thing. Because Sherlock was dead, but this man could be him. Oh, just one. One. One thing to prove it. "I might." he said at last, keeping his face smooth.

There was a long pause, the assassin first waiting for some hint as to what he should say, then realising he wasn't getting one.

John was torn. He wanted this to be Sherlock, truly he did, but at the same time, what if it wasn't? What then? The Sherlock he'd known wouldn't have attacked him in an alleyway- or at least, he hoped he wouldn't have. "I'm sorry."

“Stop-”

“Tell me something, then. Something we haven’t talked about.”

Sherlock scanned the man opposite him, but debris fro the fight covered nearly every deduction to be made. He could feel his eyebrows knitting together as time ticked by. Finally a thought struck him. It made absolutely no sense but suddenly it seemed so prominent in his head, a fact of significance. He had no choice but let the words fall from his mouth. "Harry's short for Harriet. Your  _sister_."

John blinked and swallowed. His stomach was twisting and lungs not quite cooperating as he answered. "And your name isn't Sebastian. It's Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. You're my flatmate, the world's only consulting detective, and four months ago you jumped off the roof of St. Bart's and died on the concrete. I took your pulse." John nodded, turned on his heel and strode off.

"Sherlock Holmes." He whispered the words, trying to get a feel for it. He wished it stirred something in him but it didn't.  _Sherlock Holmes._  Again he mouthed it as he took in the rest of the explanation. His eyes went up to the roof of the hospital. When he looked back, the doctor had already begun to go. Jogging after him, he reached out for the man's arm. "Wait-"

John flinched from the contact. He'd hoped Sherlock would follow him. "Yes?"

Falling into stride with the doctor, the man rubbed again at the scar on his head. The death of the doctor’s friend was now his own failed suicide and there was too much to ask. "I don't remember otherwise I'd... You said we  _are_  flatmates. Not were."

John shook his head. "Never cancelled your lease." He swore softly, then stopped and rounded on him. "You really don't remember anything? Anything at all? What happened to you?"

Shaking his head, he longed to say that he could recall something, if not for the doctor's sake then for his own. "No people, no events. Only what I've learned."

John scowled and let out a breath. “So now what? I know that if I interfere with your boss, there'll be hell to pay. For both of us.  I can't tell you too much, and I can't leave you in the dark."

"I know what he's capable of. Tell me what you can and I-" His phone gave a beep from his pocket, cutting him off. He feared immediately that his boss knew -- that his boss could see him. He let out a relieved sigh as he read he message, speaking quickly and backing away as he set off  "I've got to get something done, I... Where's the flat? I'll meet you.

John was silent for a long moment, the darkness stretching between them before he dropped his head, lips pursing and sigh edging into the silence. “221b Baker Street. Look out for the landlady."

 

> _  
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> * * *
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> _  
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> _Co-written by doublebarreledtigercub when we first started talking a year ago today. Excuse my liberties in editing and accept the dedication._
> 
> _You're a brilliant writer and a better friend._
> 
> _Here's to the years to come._


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